Travelers In a Dangerous Time
by spheeris1
Summary: AU :: Myka POV :: Multi-chapter mess :: Angst, love, & time-travel :: Tried this idea out once. Am now trying it again...
1. Chapter 1

_NOW_

/ / /

You've chased down your fair share of dragons, haven't you?

And there, along your skin, are the marks of your kills: a network of scars, knees that feel stiff on rainy mornings, eyes that do not fully close when you sleep, and – of course – millions of memories to keep you company.

Now, you stand alone and watch as a breeze flutters through miles and miles of field-grass and so this is the end of the world.

This is the end of all your travels and all of your battles.

And the urge to cry is overwhelming – though you've not cried since the day…

…Well, since that day that seems so long ago.

Still, the air is sweet and when you make yourself breathe it in, you do feel lighter. And when you shift your feet and start to walk, it's like pieces of your old self just fall away from your body – layer by layer – until it is as though you've been wiped clean.

And didn't they whisper about this place, back when you were wet behind the ears and so damn naïve; back when you believed you were fighting the good fight and back when you thought you were on the right team?

Everyone talked about this place but no one really thought it actually existed.

You sure as hell didn't think this place existed.

And your hand reaches up automatically to caress the pale white ridge that runs down the outside of your shoulder – a friendly reminder of another time – but the flesh is smooth to the touch. And your eyes look down, studying this lack of a wound where one should be…

Everyone whispered about this place but no one expected to actually find it.

But here you are, Myka Bering, at the beginning and the end of all things.

And the urge to cry is overwhelming, so you do.

/ / /


	2. Chapter 2

_THEN_

/

The jump didn't go quite according to plan, but they almost never do. She got used to it – eventually – and her stomach doesn't drop to her feet anymore. She got used to it and her head doesn't spin like a fucking top. She doesn't throw up and she doesn't stumble around like a drunk at three in the morning anymore.

She's gotten used to it and her feet land on the ground with surety, crouching low like an animal ready to bolt at any second. Right hand is on her hip, tesla already charged and ready, and the left hand is flared out in anticipation – of a hard surface or a person or just empty space.

She's timed this one pretty close to the mark.

She's got exactly five minutes to lock onto the target and, instead of landing where she projected back at the Warehouse, she is half a mile away from her objective.

But she's been in worse situations then this.

And so she starts to run.

/

Myka Bering is dressed for the cold, in preparation for the onslaught of winter weather in Russia, but the air is still like a frozen slap to her face and it still feels like cold hands have somehow managed to reach into her lungs.

But she keeps running, skirting over the rubble of demolished buildings and ignoring bodies yet to be gathered up, yet to be burnt or to be buried. And she stays close to whatever walls she can find, knowing that to be seen is to probably be shot on sight.

She knows some Russian. She knows more German, though.

But she doesn't want to have to speak either today.

And, really, what could she possibly say if caught? How could she ever explain the weapon she carries? How could she talk her way around the device that is attached to her wrist, this technologically glorious but still damn painful piece of machinery that pushes and pulls her through time?

And so the only answer to these questions is to not get caught in the first place.

She's got a minute and a half left as she rounds a corner and then, suddenly, there he is.

His name is irrelevant to Myka, though she knows it. His life up to this point is irrelevant as well; all of his wishes and wants and faults and misgivings, family and friends and enemies; even his reasons for playing with destiny on this very day… None of it matters to Myka; none of it is supposed to matter.

All that matters to Myka is stopping him from accomplishing his goal.

It's November the 19th, 1942, and this is day when the tide turns in Stalingrad.

And Myka Bering is here to ensure that history remains on course.

The tesla is out before she even stops moving and, as the man spins around, she fills his body up with paralyzing-levels of electricity. And he tumbles down like dead weight, twitching once or twice along the way.

Myka quickly drops as low to the ground as possible when the sound of the Red Army's planned attack begins to filter into her ears. She snags ahold of this man's limp hand and weaves their fingers together as tightly as possible, her lips counting down the seconds – voice too soft to be heard over the ringing of gunfire – and the two of them are jerked away from this place just as the surface beneath them explodes in a rain of fire and dirt and snow.

Special Agent Lattimer is the first – and only – one to point out the fact that Myka did not make it back to the Warehouse totally unscathed.

"Looks like you brought back a war wound, Bering."

He grins like it is a good thing, a badge of honor that no one in the 'regular' world would ever believe. And so her fingertips gently run over the parting of tender skin, just under her left eye, and they come back red with life.

"I guess that's the price I've got to pay for saving the world, Lattimer."

/

Myka cannot say that she is unequivocally happy with her life.

She only has impressions of what happiness sometimes feels like, what it sometimes looks like or tastes like.

Sometimes, what once made her feel a pulse of joy is reduced to a faded flicker of something that once had power – like her father's ever-elusive approval, like the attentions from some brain-dead-but-good-looking boy in a high-school History class. Sometimes, what should scare her is what makes her feel alive – like crashing into a moment already in-flux as bullets fly past her head and with the fate of what-has-been resting completely within her hands.

But she cannot say that this life – her life – is a happy one.

She still comes home every night very much alone. She still stands quietly as the food moves around and around in the microwave, having no patience to cook and, really, food is food to Myka. She still sits in silence – no music playing, no television blaring from the corner – as she sips on a tumbler of single malt scotch over ice as the hours slowly slip away.

The drink is a habit now.

It used to be an honorary thing, from another part of her life, from when she was but a simple Secret Service Agent on the fast track and from when she thought she was in love.

It was Sam's drink.

She used to tip one back every night as a way to say that she remembered the man with affection; to acknowledge that their time with one another meant something and she wouldn't just forget him as life moved inevitably onward.

Now, though, Myka utilizes the alcohol in order to numb the discomfort in her wrist and, subsequently, her arm.

It was with a mixture of bewildered giddiness and great trepidation that Myka extended her unblemished arm – save for a few work-related bruises – to some red-headed technician who looked young enough to still be in junior high. And that first needle to her skin… Jesus Christ, did it burn… And Myka wondered, in the midst of feeling like an invisible fire had been lit upon her poor body, if people could get addicted to this substance that was rapidly entering her bloodstream. The men and women who recruited her, the Regents, spoke bluntly at her debriefing about the perils of time-jumping – but they never mentioned if this silver liquid slipping throughout Myka's body had any ill side-effects.

So far, so good – that's how Myka likes to address her doubts these days.

But sometimes, as she starts to fall asleep in her king size bed – where she still sleeps on the right side, as if she is waiting for someone to join her in slumber – Myka thinks she can feel that silver stream still running through her veins. There, where the crisscross of human wiring twists in dull agony, Myka can still feel this almost imperceptible tugging of her insides.

And it feels like she is still travelling, like she is hurtling through the cosmos with no destination set, faster than the speed of light… And it is like her body is humming with a kind of movement that cannot be seen by the naked eye...

It is an exhilarating feeling, in its own way, that mixture of disorientation and euphoria upon waking up.

But it is equally terrifying, too.

/

There is a buzzing-like noise by her head and Myka blinks her eyes back to awareness, looking automatically at the digital clock by her bedside.

1:38 a.m.

And that familiar ache returns to her wrist as the device there continues to emit a low droning sound in order to gain her attention. Of course, this isn't the first time she's been awakened in the middle of the night by the Warehouse. In this line of work, 9-5 is just song by some country singer – it is not an expectation of how a weekday will play out.

She takes a moment to splash her face with cool water, to swish and then spit out some mouth-wash, before getting dressed with expert precision; it takes her less than ten minutes and then she is out the door.

Special Agent Lattimer greets her at the entrance, along with several other agents in various states of tidiness, and ushers them through the maze of hallways that lead to the labs.

Some of them grumble about not getting paid enough for being jerked away from sleep so early; some of them complain that they were in the middle of 'something' – which most everyone takes to mean 'sex' by the series of knowing looks shared – when the call to action came barreling in and ruined all the fun.

"What about you, Bering," Lattimer asks as he moves swiftly by her side, "did the Warehouse ruin your fun, too?"  
But Myka just shrugs in response. "I wasn't busy."

In the Secret Service, it was Myka's ability to compartmentalize that made her good at her job. The rigors of training teach you to put yourself last, after all, and Myka took to that way of thinking like a duck to water. Out in the field, her individualist thoughts could be locked away to the point of forgetting them and her emotions could be negated to the point of not feeling them at all. And sure, there were jokes as guys would refer to her as 'Robo-Bering' with a chuckle and a sneer.

But what those men saw as an unfeminine coldness, the Warehouse saw as a valuable asset.

And after Sam, the choice to trade one dangerous profession for another wasn't even a little bit difficult to make.

"Agents, please take a seat so that we can get you up to speed as quickly as possible." Regent Kosan's voice echoes out into the lab once each of them has fully entered the room. Everyone settles down, all the murmuring from earlier dying down until there is only silence.

Regent Stanton steps up to stand beside Kosan, her hands clasped behind her back and her stern gaze cuts across each of their faces before she speaks.

"Arthur Nielsen has gone missing from the Warehouse as of 11:45 p.m. and we highly suspect that his leaving was not of his own free will."

There is a scattering of reactions to this information, most of them conveying a sense of subdued shock. Out of the corner of her eye, though, Myka catches a glimpse of the red-headed technician – off to the right, leaning heavily against one of the lab walls with arms crossed and gaze trained blankly to the floor – and on that face there is more than a brief expression of surprise or transient concern.

On that face, there are the aftershocks of loss and of true worry.

"Nielsen signed in to Lab 3 at exactly 10:16 p.m. The cameras recorded him working until 11:30 p.m. and that is when the Warehouse was compromised. In those fifteen minutes, we lost visuals on all the labs and, at 11:45 p.m., an unauthorized jump was made." Regent Kosan carries on after Stanton and Myka's attention flickers to those agents who work solely within the present-time as they begin furiously jotting down the information that Kosan is delivering.

"We have been able to locate exactly five points of destination before the signal from the STCD to the Warehouse became too weak to follow. A weak signal suggests that either the STCD is being tampered with on purpose to prevent tracking or that the person – or persons – involved in this abduction did not take extra vials of the mercury-component needed to continue jumping."

With a consenting nod of his head to Regent Stanton, Kosan steps away from the forefront and Stanton proceeds to stare out at all of agents once more, as if to impress upon them the seriousness of this situation with just a look.

"Arthur Nielsen is the Warehouse… and his safe return is the only option that will be accepted."

Stanton's voice is clear and direct as it fills up the silence that everyone in the lab has fallen under.

"All agents remaining on the ground will go with Regent Kosan to be further briefed on the various details of this breach and to gather as much intelligence possible on who committed this act. All agents equipped with STCD's are to follow me."

/

On a white board, each of the five destinations has been written down in bold, black letters.

It is this information that Myka studies quietly as various lab technicians prep the work stations, spinning the 'quicksilver' and rapidly typing information into computers. The other seven agents who, like Myka, followed Regent Stanton to another lab all seem to be within their own worlds – readying themselves for another trip down the rabbit hole and into a time where they must blend-in instead of sticking out like a sore thumb.

Lattimer steps up beside of her and motions towards the board with a tilt of his head.

"They seem pretty random to me. Obviously trying to throw us off."

On the surface of things, Myka agrees with him. Each date and each place have no apparent connection to one another. Only two of the years on the board are close – 1889 and 1899 – but the locale destinations are different. And yet there is a subtle push to the back of Myka's brain that is saying to look deeper than the surface; a push that is telling her that there is some thread tethering each jump-point to the other…

…But, for now, the answer remains out of her reach.

"We have, with the limited intelligence acquired so far, determined that most of these destinations are likely decoys," Stanton says as she draws near the white board and commands the attention of the eight agents in the lab, "However, each jump will be investigated. Some of you will double-up and some will being going solo."

And at that statement, Regent Stanton calls out the names of agents along with destination points.

Myka can tell by their faces which agents are pleased with their destinations and which are not. Those heading to foreign locales, especially the Ho'nan jump, appear less than enthused. Then again, even Myka is glad to not be the one going all the way back to China in the year 220 B.C.

"Bering, you'll be doing a solo and I'd like to discuss the destination with you beforehand."

Myka's eyes had already shifted back to the white board - darting over the dates again and again - when she hears her last name fall from Stanton's lips.

"Yes, Regent Stanton." She says automatically, blinking fast to break the vague trance-like stare that she had been directing at the information on display, and then turns away from the white board to step in closer to the Regent.

"The other Regents and I believe that your destination could be the one that holds Arthur Nielsen, Agent Bering. And since our data is limited as to who has committed this crime, then you need to know more about where you are going today than is normally appropriate."

Stanton says all of this in a low voice, eyes meeting Myka's in search of not only compliance but also of Myka keeping what is learned to herself from here on out.

And Myka is quick to acquiesce with a curt nod of the head.

Regent Stanton motions for Myka walk along with her to the furthest work station, where a chair is already set-up for the 'quicksilver' injection and where the red-headed technician stands quietly – arms still crossed, focus still distant – to assist in this procedure.

"1977 is an important year in the history of the Warehouse, Agent Bering. It is the year that Arthur Nielsen completed the finished form of the Space-Time Curvature Device and held the first series of clinical trials to assess the device's abilities. Of course, there were subsequent modifications and improvements made … but, without this moment, Agent Bering… without this moment on July the 2nd, 1977 taking place, none of what you see here would exist."

Myka listens without making comments, taking in what is being said and acknowledging – at least internally – the gravity of what she is about to embark upon.

"If someone manages to erase this moment from history, the ramifications could be cataclysmic."

The words run through Myka's mind on a constant loop, even after Stanton has left the lab and the red-headed technician has started checking Myka's vitals before indicating to Myka that she sit down. Through the haze intense focus, Myka registers that the technician is asking her a question.

"Sorry. What?"  
"I said 'do you like The Clash?'"

Myka looks at the younger woman in complete confusion, earning a quick roll of the eyes in return.

"Punk band from the seventies…?"

At Myka's slow negative shake of the head, the technician leans back and seems to study Myka's entire appearance – as if Myka were a new species to be understood. Not one to enjoy being scrutinized, Myka turns her thoughts inward once more as a deflection. She replays all that Stanton has told her and, in spite of herself, she continues to mull over the other destinations as well.

"You seem pretty white-bread to me, but I think I'll give you Bowie anyway." The technician pipes up suddenly and Myka is unable to school the irritated look that surely flashes across her face at another bizarre interruption to her thoughts.  
"What are you talking about?"  
"You are going to 1977 and I am choosing year-appropriate music for you to listen to as you jump."  
"…Music to listen to?"  
"It's my idea. Artie…"

Myka watches as the technician clears her throat unnecessarily and glances away from Myka's gaze to mess around with a very battered-looking iPod before she continues speaking.

"…I mean Mr. Nielsen was going to approve this method of lowering the blood-pressure of agents at time-jump initiations. Some of the spikes we see here at the lab are not healthy and you could end up having a heart-attack the minute you land. Or, even worse, during transition."

Myka nods her head like this means anything to her at all and, as if she were an open book, the technician rolls her eyes – again – as she sits the iPod back on a portable dock.

"You'll thank me when you don't croak at the age of 35."

The technician says this quite bluntly before she lowers something over Myka's head that is a lot like those old-time hairdryers that one would find in a salon – close to her head but not actually touching it – and music starts to slowly drift into her ears. It sounds melodic and discordant at the same time and Myka isn't sure she likes it all that much. But then she's never been known for her taste in music.

A scrap of paper is suddenly in front of Myka's eyes and it reads 'The song is called 'Speed Of Life'. I think that's fitting, don't you?'

And then she feels it: that sharp sting that – thankfully – melts away quickly these days, followed by the momentary sensation of heat – running up her arm and then throughout her entire body. Even that feeling, though, dissipates and the warmth turns cooler in her veins… never cold but definitely chilled…

And she is being pulled, molecule by molecule, away from this lab and from this music around her head and from this point in time; she is, for a less than a minute, no longer a person – just bits and pieces of electricity and energy…

…For a just a moment, Myka Bering is nothing and everything simultaneously…

And then she is brought back together like a puzzle reassembled, landing in Univille, South Dakota on July the 2nd, 1977.

/


	3. Chapter 3

_PAST_

/ /

With each jump, an agent is equipped with a tesla (an invention that allows one to disable another person without actually killing them), with the most basic intel about their target, and with whatever attire best suits the time period they are going to.

Other skills that are handy to have when a jump occurs, like a sharp mind or a sure trigger-finger, come not from Warehouse training but from the agents themselves. Since most Warehouse recruits are culled from the higher echelon of the armed forces or from government agencies with a slant towards protection, these qualities have already been honed to a fine point by the time the Warehouse comes calling.

And most of the time these few tools within Myka's belt are more than enough to have a successful time-jump; she is quick to locate her targets, her aim is at the 95% level, and she is always focused on getting the job done – and getting the job done well.

/ /

First her feet touch-down onto a concrete floor, then her eyes are scanning to the left… and there stands Arthur Nielsen - looking back at her as if this sudden appearance of a Warehouse agent isn't at all a surprise.

"Mr. Nielsen, I'm Special Agent Bering—"  
"I know who you are and, really, there's no time for introductions."

/ /

And most of the time, Myka Bering is the last person to be caught off guard – by anyone or anything.

But it is with some dismay that at exactly 8:03 a.m. - in what looks like a disheveled lab somewhere in Univille, South Dakota, in the year 1977, in the year that time-travel becomes a reality – Myka Bering realizes that her winning streak is finally up.

/ /

And then there is a sudden rush of air at her back and Myka is only able to turn half-way around - catching sight of a blur of a person - before a concussion-inducing blow is delivered to the back of her head.

/ /

…_So slowly now, when she tries to blink and when she tries to look around, there is nothing but the bright, bright light of the sun… Warm upon her face, white light pushing against her irises until there is nothing else to see…_

_And her mind is swimming, swirling and spinning, and there is a breeze rolling across her arms – fine hairs dancing to their own tune; it feels nice and confusing and strange and lovely…_

…_But so slowly now, when she tries to remember…_

_When she tries to remember, there is nothing left to find._

…_And, so slowly now, a horizon of endless green bleeds into view…_

/ /

Before anything else can be done, Myka takes a breath.

It is a shallow intake of air but still deep enough, with the muscles of her stomach slowly sinking in and then quietly releasing. And then she feels the pounding within her skull, how it centers from the back-left of her occipital bone and radiates outward – and oh yes, she knows that this will be the kind of injury that causes artificial stars to twinkle in sympathizing agony around her head… which is currently slumped down – chin almost touching her upper chest.

Next up in this physical assessment is Myka's awareness that her wrists are bound and placed behind her back. She flexes two fingers outward, feeling the cool stone surface of a wall and then she shifts her arms - just a little bit - to feel the texture of rope against her skin.

Her skin. Her bare skin.

That's when Myka realizes that her STCD has been removed.

And Special Agent Lattimer's voice chases her down from a memory, from another moment when things were not looking too good – and the sentiment fits as well now as it did then:

"_This is called shit-creek, Bering, and we are up it without a paddle."_

Myka quickly surmises that if her STCD is gone then her tesla is probably gone as well. And so her options are becoming more and more limited. But the word 'panic' is not in Myka's vocabulary; she's worked for far too long on the ability to stamp-out the compulsion to over-react and today will not be the day that she breaks that steadfast rule.

And so Myka stills her mind and she listens to her surroundings - mindful to keep her head down, her eyes closed and her breathing as silent as possible. There are no discernible sounds within her immediate vicinity – not even the faint hum of electricity – so Myka stretches her hearing as best she can. There are moments when it seems as though she can pick up on voices in conversation, but these disembodied tones sound as though they are quite distant from wherever Myka sits now.

Another breath, deeper than before, and the area around her smells somewhat earthy; like wood and dirt that's been untouched for years and years, a rich aroma that only arrives after it has been disturbed. Beyond that, there is a hint of something else in the air – like a whiff of gasoline or oil, maybe even automobile exhaust…

"Do you intend to sit like you are now for much longer? Because, as ludicrous as it may sound, there isn't any time for such pointless dawdling."

Myka can feel the tightening of her jaw, teeth pushing hard against one another in a brief expression of anger – anger at not being subtle enough, at not having her tesla within arm's reach, at not knowing that this jump was going to go so very wrong – and then she exhales without hiding the fact. Lifting her head up gently, making note of every miserable jolt of pain along the way, Myka blinks rapidly as dusty shafts of daylight fall into her vision.

And there, in between the white light and the faint shadows, is the outline of a person.

This person is, presumably, attached to the voice that just spoke to Myka. However, as much as Myka tries to focus on this person, her stomach starts to pitch back and forth as if the ground were rolling underneath her. A very distinct sensation begins to make itself known within Myka's gut as she feels the world tilt to one side and then the contents of the last meal she ate decide to return.

"Oh good lord…" The voice says, in a manner that seems exasperated and slightly disgusted, but Myka doesn't have the energy to care if her throwing-up has put a kink in anyone's plans. Every heave just creates more discomfort at the base of her skull and, with more discomfort, comes more heaving. Myka is vaguely aware of a cloth being swiped across her mouth – roughly – and of the feeling of warm, dry palms against her cheek and then forehead… like a parent who checks their child for a fever, instinctually searching out some viral predator…

"Well now, do you feel better? I suppose that hit to your head was a bit harder than I originally thought…" The voice muses calmly, the smooth sound of it much closer to Myka's face now.

And if she knew that it wouldn't send her spiraling back into the arms of horrendous physical anguish, Myka would head-butt the living hell out of whoever this person is.

Instead of indulging that desire, though, Myka digs down deep for those buried reserves of energy and tells her brain to stay focused on the reason for this jump – even if she is at quite the disadvantage currently.

"I am Special Agent Myka Bering…and you will be taken into custody for the abduction…of Arthur Nielsen."

The effort it takes to say these words, especially as her head continues to loll weakly to one side and as her throat burns from vomiting, is surprisingly tremendous. Adding to her feelings of increasing unhappiness is the fact that her eyes cannot seem to sharpen any of the details of her surroundings – or the details of the person who has her tied up either.

"My, my… aren't you the dedicated little soldier…" The voice – a woman's voice, Myka belatedly recognizes – says this in a low tone, phrase and breath both still close to Myka's squinting gaze. And then the warm palm slips away from Myka's brow as quickly as it came, followed by the sound of this person standing up and stepping away.

"Where is… Arthur Nielsen?"

Myka really dislikes the sound of her own voice right now. The question comes out so raspy and raw and it sounds too much like being defeated - and that just won't do. She tries to clear her throat but all that does is hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. She swallows hard and ignores the taste of regurgitated spit that travels back downward.

"Oh, he's around here somewhere." The woman replies with an indifferent murmur, coming from somewhere opposite of where Myka has been unceremoniously placed.

As if it were the secret to clearing up her vision-issues, Myka opens her eyes very wide and then she closes them. She keeps them shut, squeezing them tightly until the blackness starts to come in waves of color – and then she reopens them slowly. Thankfully, things appear a little better after that and so Myka repeats this process several times.

It is on the fifth or sixth attempt that everything begins to take on a real shape and form again – and Myka's eyes automatically seek out the face of her captor.

And leaning against a gap-filled wooden wall, with sunlight falling in and spilling onto shoulders, is a woman who looks right back at Myka with a cool and accessing stare.

The place that they are in - which appears to be some kind of work shed, full of abandoned building materials and battered metal gasoline containers, shovels and pickaxes and other well-worn tools - is still covered in more shadows than not. But with the steady return of Myka's vision, the shadows do not hide what they once did and she can now do some serious accessing of her own.

A rough guess at age is what Myka starts with, the answer landing somewhere between 30 to 35 years old, and – of course – there is information given over with the woman's voice. While pain clouded Myka's awareness for a short while, once she was thinking more clearly, the accent registered immediately and Myka places her bets on England being the home of this woman. Dark hair that goes slightly past the shoulders, possibly black in color, and dark eyes that have not altered in their responding gaze – steady, self-assured, but still completely guarded…

It is a look that Myka actually knows very well.

She's seen it many times before – at the start of the day, at the end of the day, caught in the fog of a bathroom mirror – and Myka blinks suddenly in order to break this realization into fragments.

But this minute action causes a small smile to slowly curve up the corners of the other woman's lips.

"They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul," The woman says softly as their scrutiny of one another gradually continues, "but which one of us is willing to be so easily revealed, hmm?"

And, for a split second, Myka cannot help but feel that she has totally failed in this practiced design of subterfuge.

A door to the far right creaks upon its hinges and then bangs open loudly, which jerks Myka's attention away from the other woman. The quick turn of her head, however, is not a good idea; she is unable to stop the groan that tumbles out of her mouth and shuts her eyes again as a temporary stop-gap to more suffering.

"Oh good, good, you're finally awake." A man's voice chimes into the silence. "I think I blended in pretty well out there but then my clothes are considered old-fashioned anyway… The money, though… That was tricky and I, uh, had to get some things without paying for them. I'm not used to running… as is probably evident… but this should fit you and then we should really get out of here. I mean, not here-here but out of here… out of this building so that we can talk about… well, you know, everything…"

Myka cracks open one eye once the man stops talking and an up-close wire-rimmed gaze is peering back at her. She thinks that he looks kind-of like an owl and then must shove down the incomprehensible compulsion to laugh because that kind of reaction is really not what she needs right now. But her damn head hurts and, honestly, the rest of her body doesn't feel too much better after sitting on the ground – with wrists bound – for who knows how long. She smells like puke, which is incredibly unappealing, and her throat still feels like sandpaper every time she even thinks of swallowing.

So, in reality, a hysterical reaction would not be entirely unexpected.

But Myka is in no mood for any more mistakes to occur on this jump - even if said mistakes only concern the slight fraying of her professional composure due to what is shaping up to be one hell of a sore skull.

"You are Arthur Nielsen."

It is not an inquiry; it is a statement of fact. It is a series of concrete syllables that Myka needs to hear coming off of her own tongue, an anchor in a situation that is – presently - out of her control.

"Well, yes, that's who I am… Are you having trouble remembering things? Do you know who you are?"

Myka hears the sigh as it leaves her body and it sounds as tired as she ultimately feels.

"Yeah… Yeah, I know exactly who I am…"

And Arthur Nielsen nods his head at her, as if rather pleased with her comment, and he reaches out to gingerly pat one of her shoulders.

"That's excellent, Agent Bering… Knowing who you are is the perfect place to start."

He then turns his attention to a battered-looking leather rucksack, digging out various items – Myka's tesla and STCD included – before pulling out a tightly folded piece of paper and a mason-jar full of some clear liquid.

"Did you know that many people used to be afraid that aspirin would harm their heart?" The man asks aloud, his eyes still trained on opening the jar carefully and then taking the same cautious actions with the folded paper.

Myka isn't sure if she is supposed to respond or not; she's not even sure if he is talking to her or the other woman… or just to himself.

It becomes apparent, though, that Arthur Nielsen talks for the sake of talking.

"It had become so popular during mid-1900's, during that horrible flu pandemic, and people were popping pills left and right… They poisoned themselves. They overdosed on something that is supposed to help… After that, there must have been quite the stigma attached to aspirin and every ad in every paper had to tell a person, over and over, that aspirin would not hurt them."

Arthur Nielsen looks up at her then, two white pills resting in one hand and the jar of liquid held in the other hand.

"Take these, Agent Bering. Hopefully you'll be able to keep them down as it, uh, seems you were not able to do with… other things…"

His eyes flicker downward quite obviously and Myka stifles another sigh that wants to break free from her lips, this one not so much weary as it is annoyed by every single aspect of this time-jump. She takes the aspirin, though, and drinks the entire contents of the jar; the cold water feels fantastic as it goes down her parched throat and Myka wishes the man had about ten more jars full of the stuff.

"Right. So I think it is time to untie you now…" The man says as he starts to gently lean Myka's body forward and that's when the other occupant of this work shed jumps back into this one-sided conversation.

"I don't really see how that is a good idea, Mr. Nielsen. Can we not leave her here and continue on with the original plan?"

Arthur Nielsen fiddles around with the knots that keep Myka's hands and arms fairly immobile, huffing out a complaint or two as he works, before he responds to the other woman.

"Plans always require readjustments, Ms. Wells… and, please, no more 'Mr. Nielsen'… That's my father. Call me Arthur. I'll even tolerate Artie… but not 'Mr. Nielsen'. My father… He was a nervous immigrant to this country, still wary of the 'Jewish Curse' and didn't care at all about what makes the world work, what makes things tick… He just wanted to keep his head down and survive… We were never very much alike…"

As Artie painstakingly works the ropes loose, still mumbling about this and that as he does so, Myka shifts her attention back to the other woman. 'Ms. Wells' is no longer leaning casually against the wall, though. Now, dark eyes watch Arthur's movements and then they glance at the tesla that rests on the ground. Myka chances a look to the weapon as well, wondering if she has the stamina left to make a dive for it once she is no longer restrained.

Because having the tesla in her hands won't completely solve whatever is going on here, but it might make the answers come a whole lot quicker.

"However…," Arthur Nielsen begins, fingers pausing on what feels like the last knot that is keeping Myka in place, "…until you have been brought up to speed, Agent Bering, you will not get your tesla back."

The other woman seems to visibly relax then, lines of tension fade away upon her pale forehead, and hands that were fidgeting return to a more calm state.

"And you should also know that I disabled the tracking mechanism to your STCD… Can't have anyone else showing up until things are settled…" Arthur continues, pulling the final rope through the loop and then he is moving back – taking the tesla, the useless STCD, and the rucksack with him as he stands.

Myka brings her arms back to a normal position, rotating the shoulders several times and then rubbing down her arms to encourage blood flow. The ropes were tight but not the point of cutting into her skin; still, her wrists ache and she rotates them next, hearing bones pop in the process. And then she reaches back, trying to softly probe the lump at the back of her head. It is beyond tender to the touch and Myka is sure that her expression does not hide this fact from the other two people in this shed.

"We're going to get a room for tonight. I'll, uh, find a way to get some money that is current… or, you know, current to this time… We need food and we need to talk… we need to talk about so many things, Agent Bering… Ms. Wells?"

The other woman stands there, arms crossed and with a look of subdued thunder rolling across her face, but she releases a tight smile nonetheless as she responds to the man.

"Yes?"  
"I'm, uh, going to step out… If you'll help Agent Bering to change… You and I can blend in, mostly… but she'll stand out as she is now… Not just from the style of clothes either. There's the smell to deal with, too."

Arthur Nielsen waves his hand dismissively in their general direction and then leaves the shed with a sturdy shut of the door. Myka manages to turn and get to her knees first, arms shaking just the littlest bit as she slowly pushes herself to a standing position. She still has to place her hands against the wall, though, in order to keep the world from wanting to spin.

It is at that moment that the other woman – 'Ms. Wells' - walks over to the doorway, picking up some clothing from the ground, and then sort of saunters her way back to where Myka is somewhat precariously propped up.

"It appears that Mr. Nielsen has obtained a nice frock for you to wear." The woman intones, holding up the wrinkled, polka-dotted dress for Myka's observation.

The annoyed sigh cannot be contained this time, though.

"This day might as well suck all the way around, I suppose." Myka replies and, as she looks back at the other woman, there is a faint quirk of the lips to be found – revealing a little bit of confusion, yes, but also a little bit of amused understanding as well.

After that exchange, though, it is mostly silence - except for when soft bursts of pain emit from Myka's mouth unwillingly; their eyes do not meet again as they work in tandem with buttons and with zippers and with avoiding semi-naked awkwardness at all costs. When Myka is finally fully dressed, she makes her way to the closed door – taking measured steps the whole way – but there is a second where her equilibrium tips out of balance again and her body wants to crash towards the wall closest.

…And a pair of hands find her before she falls; strong fingers secure themselves around one of Myka's arms and then there is the stable sensation of a hand hooked lightly about Myka's hip.

Myka clears her throat, quite needlessly, once she is able to stand on her own and the hands swiftly pull away.

"Thanks."  
"It was no trouble."

Myka makes a move to open the door but pauses to look back at the other woman.

"But don't think that I've forgotten that you are the one responsible for my head feeling like it is going to fall off… or that I've forgiven you that fact either… Ms. Wells."

The other woman just politely tips her head in calm acceptance, though; eyes full of confidence despite the warning tone of Myka's comment.

"Of course not… Agent Bering."

/ /


	4. Chapter 4

/ /

The ability to forget is one quality that Myka does not possess.

And while this trait does not pair-up well with emotions, it is another reason why she was such a catch for the Secret Service. It isn't just that she has an eye for details; it's that she can recall these details – with total clarity - at the drop of a hat.

Eidetic memory is the technical term but, for Myka, she just thinks of it as being fully aware.

Or, sometimes, of being too aware.

There have been moments – hours or minutes or days – that Myka would give anything to forget forever. Like an eraser being dragged across a blackboard, certain vivid recollections would be wiped away – and with their demise so would go the feelings attached.

But, of course, no one can change the past… At least, that's what Myka always believed.

And then the Warehouse happened.

/ /

The three of them stand side-by-side, Ms. Wells with her arm threaded through one of Myka's own – not from any sense of companionship but to prevent Myka from toppling over in front of everyone and drawing unwanted attention to these individuals unstuck in time – and there, in front of them, is a large, man-made sphere of white.

Myka's eyes open wide and then flutter to the point of being almost shut, over and over, but her mind is still keenly aware of all that is going on around them. She catalogued information during their slow stroll from the shed; she took in every sound and every sight as they left behind the relative quiet of a park and emerged into a sea of people. And while her somewhat-educated guess was hedging towards somewhere in the late-1940's as their current time, this structure in front of her lazy gaze gives her a more definite answer.

"Why are we at the New York World's Fair?"

Arthur Nielsen does not look over at Myka but there is a hint of a smile upon his face at Myka's question.

"Good eye, Agent Bering. And I needed somewhere to think, somewhere that the Warehouse would not actively associate with me… Once you showed up in 1977, I knew that things were, uh, accelerating… and, well, who doesn't want to see the origins of 'the world of tomorrow'?

His hands motion to the huge banner that hangs a short distance away from them, the material waving in the slight breeze and making the words 'Dawn of a New Day' ripple in the sunlight. But, really, Myka is only focused on the words that Arthur Nielsen just spoke; she can feel her own brow furrowing in thought as she tries to make sense of this situation she is in.

But there is absolutely no sense to be made.

"Mr. Nielsen-"Myka begins and the man visibly winces as he interrupts her.  
"It's Arthur, please, just Arthur…"  
"Right, okay…Arthur… I need to know what is going on here."

Myka is not sure if she was expecting resistance or not to this conversation, but Arthur Nielsen just nods his head in agreement to Myka's demand.

"Of course, Agent Bering… But where exactly to begin these explanations is the real problem, though, isn't it? There are so many beginnings to contend with these days… But let's discuss things after the Perisphere. I want to see the diorama. It's supposed to be utopian in theme… You might like it, too, Ms. Wells."

As they move away from the towering spire-like Trylon to the sphere's entrance, hemmed in by eager onlookers as the escalator carries them forward, Myka finds her body leaning quite heavily onto the support of Ms. Wells arm. Her mind protests this sign of continued weakness; it begs Myka's muscles to find strength from somewhere and to utilize it. But every time she tries to stand more fully, to lessen the dependence on having someone physically near, her legs just want to give way – the knees lock painfully, then they tremble at the pressure being put upon them and so Myka loses the fight repeatedly. She can feel the other woman's eyes on her every so often - subtle in their glances - but beyond that, they haven't exchanged one word with each another since they left the shed.

And Myka, even with all the concerns she carries due to this time-jump going so far off track, still finds her own eyes straying to Ms. Wells again and again.

One reason for this observation is because Myka cannot figure out the woman's role in whatever is going on with Arthur Nielsen. It has become quite apparent that what the Warehouse believes to be a kidnapping is something else entirely. And Arthur Nielsen, as far as Myka can tell, seems lucid of mind and cognizant of the world that surrounds him; he does not behave like someone who is being held against his will.

With only a surname and a terribly wicked fist to go on, though, Ms. Wells is pretty much a total mystery to Myka - and all mysteries are like an itch that Myka finds very hard not to scratch.

And that's the other reason for this observation of Ms. Wells – the lure of actual, honest-to-goodness curiosity.

Being curious has been a part of Myka's personality for a long time; falling from one book-idea to another, with questions pouring out of her mouth until her parents would tell her to 'be quiet for God's sake, Myka.' And while experience has taught Myka to temper this inexplicable want with restraint and to remain driven as ever to lead her musings towards the rational and not the fantastical… There are still times where she cannot seem to help herself, where she cannot seem to stop herself from asking the questions that maybe she should not…

And on Ms. Wells, there rests one hell of a question mark.

The Perisphere swallows them up and a multitude of gazes are trained to the diorama below; a make-believe city is stretched out underneath fascinated stares, 'the world of tomorrow' as seen from a distance – both literally and metaphorically.

"Such hope for the future…," Ms. Wells voice is like a hush against the ear, soft and almost-otherworldly, "…and not a single shred of fear over what might come to pass…"

No one else seems to hear Ms. Wells speak; not even Arthur Nielsen, with his attention completely captured by the moving slides of the fictional 'Democracity' that slip across the sphere's surface. Only Myka's ears catch this delicate utterance amidst the noise of New Yorkers gawking at futuristic imaginings. And Myka's mouth opens quite without forethought, the words falling from her lips before her brain can halt their progress.

"'Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise.'"

Ms. Wells is truly looking at her now and Myka can practically feel that stare against her skin; it is an unsettling and intense sensation that lands upon her temple before running down the length of her jaw and, lastly, sweeping over her profile in a long silence that seems to drown out the crowd around them. Myka decides to return this scrutiny without faltering, though, and the smile that greets her lingers somewhere between approval and intrigue.

"A traveler through time and an admirer of Thomas Gray... You are a special agent indeed, aren't you?"

And the silence around them holds for a second longer, pulled taut, until it must snap and then rest of the universe falls back into place once more.

Myka blinks and suddenly feet are shuffling around her, people ready to descend down the Helicline so that they can partake in the rest of the wonders of a world that does not yet exist. And Ms. Wells is tugging Myka along, all stiff-joints and sore head, towards Arthur Nielsen and towards the kind of questions that even Myka may regret asking.

/ /


	5. Chapter 5

/

_**PRESENT**_

/

"_A flick of the wrist, Ms. Donovan… That's all it takes to change everything…"_

/

Claudia has perfected the nonchalant facial expression.

That particular look used to come in very handy, especially in her more 'wayward' days. 'Wayward' – that's Artie's word for her; like a girl washed up on the shore, no name and no island to call home and hell-bent on making the world pay.

And, in a way, his commentary-by-word isn't far off from the truth.

Claudia was adrift, set loose by the workings of bitter fate. Or, to put it more bluntly – her parents died and Social Services swooped in with good intentions that went real sour. And she bounced like a ball from foster home to foster home for a while because she was 'too unruly, too noisy, and too chaotic'.

One day, a place stuck to her like gum to the bottom of a shoe – unwanted but unable to fully clean away. Claudia was sixteen at the time and she didn't want a replacement family anymore.

She just wanted to disappear from all of this bull-shit… or, you know, to somehow turn back time; to somehow strip the years away and stop the death of her parents and then mend the wounds that refused to heal.

That's how Claudia ended up at the Warehouse.

…Well, in a roundabout sort of way, that's how she ended up at the Warehouse.

She wasn't a part of some elite government force. She didn't graduate from some ivy-league university either. She has always been intelligent but no one had ever cared to put those smarts to the test.

So, as much as she dislikes the idea of 'fate', Claudia will have to begrudgingly blame the inner-workings of the mystical universe – or whatever one might want to call it – for propelling her feet into a bookstore exactly three years ago and for making her attempt to steal a book that Arthur Nielsen was looking for.

/

_It is raining and Claudia has nowhere else to go._

_Well, she could go home… but home is something from a movie, with smiling faces and families intact, and that's not what Claudia would call her foster situation._

_It is a place. It has a bed and some food and a roof._

_That's it._

_She spends most of her time outside anyway, tramping through the park in the middle of the night - careful to avoid the addicts who peer from the shadows… or she will skirt around the edges of the downtown area during the day, tapping her fingers against storefront windows as she skips school. She'll pick-pocket fruit from the farmer's market, rubber-soled feet sprinting down sidewalks with glee – too fast for irate sellers, rushing away with curse words ringing in her ears._

_She'll sit on the grass and eat her stolen apple, giving absolutely no fucks._

_But tonight it is raining and Claudia has nowhere else to go, so she ducks into a bookstore that is still open. The electronic bell chimes and the clerk looks over at her – stern gaze of an old lady, already reprimanding crimes yet to be committed… And that look just makes Claudia want to do something bad, something like knocking over a book-stand or tossing a magazine or two into the bathroom toilet._

_Claudia smirks at the lady and the lady looks away._

_Fingertips running over book spines, pulling out a couple and then shoving them away again, Claudia tries her best to shake off the chill of the damp clothes she is wearing. And she breezes past the romance novels – glancing at a couple and rolling her eyes at the bulging muscles, at the flowing locks of hair; and she breezes past the mysteries about death and about loss…_

_Claudia's had enough of death anyway._

_The used section, with its musty smell and yellowed pages, seems like the right place to go for a little 'up yours' thievery. Besides, Claudia likes to read. And while other kids her age are devouring dumb-ass vampire stories, Claudia is moving her way through the science section at school – well, at least on the days she shows up to school. And there, in black letters on white pages, Claudia discovers the complexities of the universe._

_And it is as fascinating as it is completely pointless._

_She digs around the bookshelf, ignoring the man on the other end who is doing the same thing; she bypasses titles and pauses on others, reading a description or two and then she moves on. And then Claudia's hand and the man's hand are reaching for the same book and knuckles crash._

"_Sorry." The man says. Claudia lazily shrugs one shoulder.  
"Whatever."_

_But she grabs the book from the shelf, glancing at the cover, before looking back at the man. With wide eyes blinking behind glasses, this man's hand is already stretching outward, reaching for the book that Claudia is holding… and her feet move, stepping back about a foot or so._

"_Please, let me have that book… It's, uh, a favorite of mine and I lost my copy years ago… I doubt someone of your age would be interested in such an old thing…"_

_Claudia really dislikes most people but she especially dislikes condescending adults who think that – because of her age – she wouldn't like something or won't be able to understand it or blah blah blah. So, she takes another step back and turns the book over, reading the description quickly and then lifts her gaze to look at the man standing in front of her._

"_So… you some kind of Doctor Who fan? Want to bone up on your classic time-traveling literature?" Claudia asks, waving the paperback to and fro slowly. And the guy actually tries to snatch it from her grasp! She really back-pedals at that point, shoes shuffling backwards with ease._

"_What's your deal, Grandpa? It's just some old book."  
"No… No, it's not, not at all… Listen, Miss…?"_

_Claudia sort of laughs at him, like a huff of 'are you kidding me?' amusement._

"_Miss None-of-Your-Business… You seriously think I am going to tell you my name?"_

_But instead of answering her, the man is looking her over and then studying her face like a total creeper… and Claudia is edging away, keeping the book close to her person – she's going to take it, out of spite, on two levels now – and her eyes are darting to the left to see the quickest way to get to the door._

"_I came in here without any real purpose, Miss None-of-Your-Business… I had a dream or a vision or… I don't know, I've been having a lot of those lately… But I had to come here. And then when I saw that book, the one you are holding, I realized why I was here tonight… Did you ever forget the reasons for why you are doing something, Miss None-of-Your-Business? And then you are forced to remember those reasons… Fate loves to remind you of what you've lost sight of, Miss None-of-Your-Business…"_

_Claudia backs up even more, eyes trained on the man, and so she slams unexpectedly into another bookshelf._

"_Dude, you are the one-man-band of crazy town, aren't you?" Claudia says with a shake of her head and a strange, nervous feeling crawling up her spine. "God, I just came in here to—"_

_But the man interrupts her, voice calm and without getting any closer to where Claudia is pressed uncomfortably against rows of hard-backs._

"_To get out of the rain, I know… and then to choose the very book I came here to get… There are no such things as coincidences, Miss None-of-Your-Business…"  
"Stop calling me that." Claudia groans out unhappily and the man actually smiles at her. But it isn't a weird, dirty-old-man smile or a 'call the police, this guy is gonna shoot up the place' kind of smile either…_

_For, like, half a second… it's the kind of smile that Claudia has tried hard to forget… It's the kind of smile that echoes with the memory of a father long dead._

"_Then what should I call you?" The man asks and Claudia swallows so hard that it feels like a rock is going down her throat. But then the truth just falls from her mouth, like she has lost her damn mind or something..._

"…_Claudia… uh, Claudia Donovan…"_

_The man nods his head approvingly._

"_How would you like to talk about time-travel for a while, Miss Donovan?"_

/

"Still nothing yet?"

Nonchalant gives way, just a little bit, when Agent Lattimer's voice cuts through Claudia's concentration. She likes Agent Lattimer a little more than the other agents; whenever he's been in her chair – awaiting another dose of the 'silver dragon' (her nickname for the mercury, which Artie disapproves of) – they have made easy conversation with one another.

Agent Lattimer has a sense of humor as well, even if it is kept on the down-low most times. And Claudia, after so many days of being the epitome of 'emo', has learned to appreciate a good laugh when it comes along.

"Nada. But this is a search-and-rescue, right? It'll take more time than a regular jump."

Agent Lattimer nods his head in agreement but Claudia can tell by the little lines around his eyes that he is still anxious about the fact that Agent Bering has not returned to the lab yet. That's another thing she kind of likes about Agent Lattimer, too – he cares about the other people and it shows. Everyone else at the Warehouse, from the Regents all the way to the janitor, seems to play stoicism to the hilt.

Agent Bering included.

It's a kind of Stepford Wife-ish, in Claudia's opinion… but without all the fake smiling. In this wonderful world of covert operations within time, seriousness is the face that everyone wears. And that face rarely breaks, rarely cracks – even if someone is in trouble, even if something goes wrong…

…No one reacts the way you'd expect them to.

But Agent Lattimer has some fractures in the veneer and it shines like a beacon of normalcy in this white-washed laboratory.

Claudia offers a quick smile to the man, which he sort-of returns, and then she points to the empty chair.

"So, in an effort to keep your vital signs… well, vital, and to turn that frown upside-down, how'd you like to give the ambient systemic circulation stabilizer a whirl?"

Agent Lattimer's sort-of smile turns into sort-of grimace.

"A what now?"

Claudia nudges him towards the chair and he sort of stumbles into the seat, eyes watching Claudia's movements with some curiosity and some apprehension.

"It's just a glorified pair of head-phones and music. It helps people chill out… which you apparently need to do."

And she smothers a chuckle as Agent Lattimer leans back with a sigh and tells her to 'change the name of this thing, though, 'cause that's a real mouthful.' Then she allows him to choose the music on the iPod, especially after he gets snarky with some of her choices and a tickle of annoyance makes her shove the iPod into his hands. But then his eyes shut and there is a slight grin on his face now and that's what counts to Claudia.

Because she cares, too.

And while Agent Lattimer listens to some boy-band classics (and don't think she's going to ever let him live that one down) in order to forget his troubles for a moment or two, Claudia can indulge in a little bit of worry of her own.

Not so much about Agent Bering… but about Arthur Nielsen and about this kidnapping that Claudia knows to be not at all what it seems.

/


End file.
